Chapter 11
The woman tightened her grip on the lamp, its small but steady glow throwing long shadows across the cobbles. Without a word, she guided Micah forward, her free hand resting firm upon his shoulder, urging him toward the stoop of the Perillo home. The door loomed before them, tall and polished, the faint shimmer of wards rippling across its surface as though the house itself had stirred to attention at their approach.
When her hand pressed against the wood, the latch yielded with a soft click, no resistance, no protest—the wards knew the blood they now bore within their threshold. Together they stepped across, the flame's light spilling into the entryway, casting a warm halo upon the familiar walls that had once been Mira's shelter.
The sound of the door opening rang sharp through the house, and in an instant, hurried footsteps echoed against the floors. Shadows moved quickly down the hallway—figures rushing from rooms, voices rising in confusion and alarm. Within moments, the family gathered, spilling into the front room, their faces pale and wide-eyed. Some clutched shawls hastily thrown about their shoulders, others still bore the marks of interrupted work, but all fixed their gaze on the threshold where Micah now stood.
A hushed silence fell as their eyes locked upon him—grief-stricken, flame-marked, standing beside the woman who carried the lamp. The air seemed to tighten, heavy with unspoken fear and dawning realization. They had seen this before, and though no word had yet passed their lips, every heart there knew she was gone, no more.
The silence cracked. Gasps broke the stillness, sharp and pained. One voice rose in a trembling whisper: "No… she's… how. Why…" Francesca stammered, her face pale with disbelief. Then came another, sharp with anger, "It's your fault! No, no—Mira, why…"
Voices clashed, rising all at once. Some turned on Micah with fury, grief made cruel by loss. Others defended the boy, swearing he could not bear the blame. The air thickened with shouts and sobs, the house trembling with the sound of it. Children wailed, adults wept openly, the cries of sorrow folding into accusations, prayers, and denial until it was all one endless tide of grief.
Only Antonio was silent, his face carved with shock. He stood apart, tears slipping freely down his cheeks, unable to speak what his heart already knew. Yet as the arguing rose to a fever pitch, something within him broke loose. His voice cracked, half-comic, half-mournful, raw with love and loss:
"Quiet, you sobbing, blabbering baboons!"
The words startled the room into stillness. A chuckle slipped from his lips, unsteady but true, before his voice grew soft again. "This… this is not what Nonna would want from us."
The room held still, every eye turned toward him. Antonio wiped at his face with the back of his sleeve, his tears falling faster than he could hide. His voice wavered, but he forced the words out, each one a broken piece of his heart.
"She gave everything for us. For him." He gestured toward Micah, his hand shaking. "Nonna—Radzimira Zoryanna Andrevna Svyatokrov—" his tongue stumbled over the old name, heavy and strange on his lips, "she knew what she carried, and still she chose him. Chose to protect him. And now here we stand, tearing at each other like dogs."
He sniffed hard, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Then, almost as if Mira herself had given him the strength, his voice steadied. "If you've got anger, then scream at the wind. If you've got tears, let them fall. But do not—do not—dishonor her by spitting blame on the boy she loved more than life itself."
His eyes flicked to Micah, wet with sorrow yet burning with something fierce. "He carries her blood. Her sacrifice. And if you cannot see that… then perhaps you never truly knew her."
His words hung in the air like a bell's last toll, sharp and echoing. For a moment, no one moved. Francesca lowered her head, her hands clutching at her shawl as tears slid silently down her cheeks. A younger cousin covered her mouth, sobbing but no longer shouting. Even the children stilled, their crying reduced to soft whimpers as if Antonio's grief had reached them too.
Yet not all were calmed. An older uncle shook his head, jaw set hard. "Blood or no blood, curse is curse," he muttered, his voice rough with bitterness. Another spat quietly to the floor, unwilling to meet Micah's eyes. Fear lingered in the corners of the room, clinging stubbornly, refusing to be exorcised by words alone.
Still, the worst of the storm had broken. The house, once filled with clashing voices, now pulsed with uneven breaths, scattered sobs, and silence heavy as stone. Micah stood at the center of it all, hollowed by grief and pressed by their stares, the weight of Mira's sacrifice and the Sphinx's vow burning upon his shoulders.
And in that silence—whether of shame, fear, or reluctant acceptance—every heart knew the same truth: nothing in their world would ever be as it had been.
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Antonio turned to Micah and began walking toward the mourning boy. With every step he took, Micah felt as if his guilt—his very self—was being nailed into a coffin, sealing him in with his fault. His heart pounded, braced for blame, for the weight of words he thought he deserved.
But when Antonio's voice came, it was not disdain. It was something else—raw, trembling, and true.
"Micah," Antonio said, stopping before him, "for a long time, I've been jealous of the love Nonna gave you… of the bond you two shared, of what she saw in you that she never seemed to see in me. But I know now—I was wrong."
His eyes glistened as he reached, almost awkwardly, for Micah's shoulder. "You may not be blood, but I'll protect you and stand by your side, just as Nonna did until her very last moment. You, little cousin—no… little brother—you and I are family. And we always will be."
A fragile silence followed, the words settling like a balm over the raw edges of the room. Then Francesca, still sobbing, stepped forward and smacked Antonio's head with a trembling hand, half-playful, half-chiding.
"Was that so hard, you big oaf?" she murmured through her tears.
A shaky laugh rippled through the grief, small but real—the first sound of warmth to pierce the heaviness since Mira's passing.
Antonio wiped his sleeve across his damp face, steadying himself, and turned toward the woman who still held the lamp. Her presence burned in the silence like an accusation no one dared voice.
"Who… who might you be?" Antonio asked, his voice raw but edged with suspicion.
The woman's eyes flicked to him, her lip curling as if she had just caught the stench of something rotting. "Ugh. Nasty, graceless, sniveling creature, ugh no not creature carnal" she spat, her words slicing the air like glass. Then, without waiting for reply, she turned her head away, dismissing him utterly, her attention fixed instead on the shadows as though he were beneath even her scorn.
The insult landed heavy. Antonio stiffened, his jaw tightening, but before he could speak again, Micah stepped forward. His grief was still raw, but his voice carried both hurt and defiance.
"Why are you being rude?" Micah demanded, the question breaking the silence like a stone through glass. "And what did you mean when you spoke about Carnals?"
The woman finally looked at him. This time, her gaze lingered, studying him as though weighing the worth of a coin she might yet keep or discard. Her mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile, wasn't quite contempt — it was colder, sharper.
"Because, boy," she said slowly, as if the words themselves carried judgment, "truth cares nothing for courtesy. Carnals — those without magic — wallow like beasts in mud, blind to the power that shapes their world. They are lesser. Frail. Temporary."
Her gaze flicked once more to Antonio, dripping with disdain, before settling on Micah. This time it lingered, sharp and assessing, as though she were measuring something invisible that only she could see.
But you…" her voice slowed, deliberate, "you are not like him. Her tone shifted, heavy with cruel pride. "You're a trueborn wizard — pure blooded — untainted by the filth of Carnals. For better or worst Her tone shifted, heavy with cruel pride. "Like a trueborn wizard — pure blooded — untainted by the filth of Carnals."
A murmur rose in the room, then a voice broke through, sharp with outrage.
"How dare you speak to Antonio that way!" Francesca cried, her hands balled into trembling fists. Others echoed her, their grief burning now with defiance.
"He's our blood!" another uncle shouted. "He's worth ten of you!"
"Carnal?" one of the younger cousins spat, anger piercing through his tears. "He stood by Micah, by all of us, when others would've fled!"
The air thickened with indignation, the family pressing closer to Antonio as though forming a shield around him.
The woman's eyes narrowed to slits. With a sharp, disdainful motion, she drew her wand, its tip glowing faintly with promise of harm. She leveled it at them, her voice a hiss. "Ungrateful vermin. I should scour this house clean of your stench."
But before the family could move, before Micah could step between them, the house itself seemed to awaken. The walls shuddered with a low, groaning tremor, as if the very stones were enraged. The lamp in her hand flared suddenly, bursting with white fire that filled the room with a searing brilliance.
She froze, her wand hand trembling ever so slightly as the light climbed higher, spilling shadows back into the corners. It was no ordinary glow — it was alive, pulsing, warning.
The message was clear, unspoken yet undeniable:
If you dared harm them, it would be your doom.
Her lips pressed thin, and for the first time since her arrival, the haughty mask of control slipped — just enough to reveal unease.
The tremor deepened, rattling the windows and groaning through the beams overhead. The lamp's flame swelled brighter still, its light searing into every corner until shadows had nowhere to hide.
The woman's grip tightened on her wand. Her jaw set, eyes flashing with defiance. "I bow to no relic," she hissed, and with a flick of her wrist she aimed her wand higher, weaving the beginnings of a curse.
The lamp roared.
The light leapt from its flame like a living wave, a blinding surge that struck her wand with a crack like thunder. Sparks flew, the wood scorched black in her hand, and she staggered back with a strangled cry. The house shuddered again, a low growl rumbling in the walls, the very air vibrating with wrath.
Her chest heaved as she fought to steady herself. The wand trembled in her hand — not from weakness, but from something deeper, a recognition of power greater than her own. Slowly, reluctantly, she lowered it.
Her lip curled, but her voice had lost its venom, replaced with wary restraint. "Very well," she muttered, each word forced through clenched teeth. "The lamp has spoken. For now."
The light eased, dimming to a steady glow once more, though it still seemed to watch her, its brilliance hovering on the edge of warning.
The family drew closer together, still trembling but victorious, Antonio standing taller among them. Micah looked between the woman and the lamp, the weight of what he'd just witnessed pressing into him like iron: this house, this flame, would not permit harm to those who bore its legacy.
The woman straightened slowly, the scorched tip of her wand still smoking faintly. Her composure returned in pieces, each breath pressed into icy control, each movement a deliberate act of defiance against the flame's warning. She smoothed her sleeve, lifted her chin, and when she finally spoke, her voice carried the cold clarity of iron.
"Very well. If you must know," she said, her gaze sweeping the room as though daring anyone to interrupt, "I am Verena Drusilla Ainsworth, Senior Magistrate of the Tribunal of Magic."
The title fell into the silence like a blade. Even those who did not fully grasp its weight felt the shift, the sense of authority coiling in her words. She let the name linger, savoring its power.
"Second in command beneath the High Magistrate himself," she continued, eyes narrowing, "tasked with upholding the sanctity of magic against corruption, ignorance, and… Carnal filth. Truth be told, that is not entirely so."
Her expression hardened, her words growing colder. "For now there are far too many wizards willing to embrace that filth, normalizing the abomination of mingling with Carnals. And so it spreads… generation after generation… until proud bloodlines are thinned, defiled, and lost to the wind of change."
Her words had barely left her lips before the room erupted.
"How dare you!" Francesca's voice cracked through the silence, fury overtaking her grief. "You insult our family, our dead, with your poison!"
"You speak of filth?" an older uncle barked, his face red with anger. "Better the so-called filth of love than the rot of arrogance!"
Children whimpered, clinging to skirts and sleeves as voices rose louder. A cousin pointed at Verena, trembling with rage. "You come here, in our hour of loss, and spit on us as if we are beneath you? Who gave you that right?"
Antonio, still stiff with the sting of her scorn, finally found his voice. His hands shook, but his words rang true. "Blood is nothing without loyalty. You can keep your pure lines. I'll stand with my family — with my brother." He reached toward Micah, his hand firm on his shoulder.
The lamp flickered again, brighter, as though siding with the family's roar of defiance.
Micah's voice rose over the tumult, steadier than he expected, carrying both anger and pain. "Enough!" He stepped forward, facing Verena directly. "You talk about filth as if it makes you stronger, as if cruelty makes you pure. But I've seen what true strength costs. My Nonna gave everything for me — and none of her love had anything to do with bloodlines!"